This is one from the archives. I had scribbled this down immediately after the show in a notebook, three years ago. I just ran across it today and with the recent release of The Hold Steady’s A Positive Rage, a CD/DVD which documents the tour that this show was from, I thought it might be fun to throw this up here. Enjoy.

If he plays his cards right, Craig Finn just might save us all.

I’m standing near the stage in Lola’s Room, a cramped, claustrophobic bar stuck in the crawlspace between Ringler’s Pub downstairs and the Crystal Ballroom upstairs. The place is buzzing with anticipation and alcohol. Sean Na-Na has just finished up a spunky set and I’ve just returned from the bar with another whiskey sour.

The stage is nothing more than a foot-high riser in the back corner of the room, flanked by a flimsy cloth divider that’s shielding the band members from the rest of this mob. The spot that I’ve staked out happens to be right next to one of the main amplifiers, which makes me glad that I brought a pair of earplugs.

I’ve been to my fair share of small shows in bars featuring bands that swing into town towing a sizeable amount of buzz behind their van, but this is the first time I’ve seen a crowd this excited to see a bar band. This kind of buzz is normally relegated to stadium shows, with their big lights, smoke machines and bright stars.

To my right, behind the curtain, a door opens and figures emerge from the stark shaft of light. The crowd comes to a murmur on cue and within seconds, the first cheers start in. By the time Craig, Tad, Galen, Franz and Bobby too the stage, the crowd is full-on frothing at the mouth. They’re immediately laughing and joking with fans as they plug in and get settled. They all crack open tall-boys and I get the feeling that we’re in for a hell of a show.

Choppy, muted chords cut through the anticipation and when the rest of the band kicks in to “Stuck Between Stations,” we all bathe in the rhythm of the 4/4 time. When Craig opens his mouth to speak, we speak with him, in hoarse voices and clinking glasses. His guitar becomes an ornament, hanging festively from his shoulders as he punctuates each phrase with jittery handclaps and nervous fingers. Occasionally, he plucks it out of the air to throw a coda onto wide-open verses and back-street choruses.

In-between songs, he’s a half-drunk carnival barker. The band smiles and jokes with each other and the crowd. You can tell that they live for this, playing their songs to sweaty throngs in barrooms across the country. And we’re hanging on every word, every backstory, every riff and every sing-along chorus.